Time of Death
by withered
Summary: A literal broken heart. A bleeding brain. A punctured lung. A broken bone. An open wound. Burned, bleeding, waiting; dying. Being a patient is the hardest thing you'll ever have to be.


Brought on by NickyFox13's Don't Hang Your Head.

My attempt at second person writing with an "every day" narrator, would love to hear your thoughts!

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Time of Death

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You have choices and you make them every day. They keep your life the same and change it too, rehashing obstacles and opportunities anew with every decision. But sometimes those choices lead you astray in ways you never thought possible because regardless of its simplicity, every one of those choices have significance, and comes with sometimes unexpected consequences.

Maybe you just got in the lift.

Maybe you just stepped off the curb.

Maybe you just lingered too long.

Maybe the pain that comes is dull, sharp or simply annoying. Maybe it just happens in that instant like the impact of the ground, a collision of a car crash or a shot through the chest.

Maybe- _Maybe-_ _ **Maybe**_ _._

Before this moment – before the choice – before being holed up in an ambulance – you were just a person.

You have a past and a present, accomplishments and failures, you have loved ones and day dreams and fears and wishes, and they were once the only things that mattered.

But that was before you landed yourself in this position.

You may still be just a person, but now you're something more than that: you are a patient, and your ability to make choices come to a grinding halt.

It isn't your call anymore.

Blood gushes, skin burns, chest tightens, bones crackle and though you've never felt anything remotely close to this, you instinctively know that this is what hell feels like.

You're going to die, comes a dreadful whisper.

Please god, you beg despite not being particularly religious, please don't let me die. Through chapped lips and air that tastes like ash you gasp aloud, "Please, please..."

No one listens or notices so you fidget and panic and try to break free even as your whole body protests in a way that feels like "too late".

There's a light above you that shines blindingly overhead though it is temporarily obscured as a pair of eyes search your face frantically.

"Hey, hey don't worry. I got you."

Belatedly you realize that you're being lifted and then moved onto another surface.

Your eyes dart around trying to get your bearings as a shiver of hysteria curls around your body, a comforting embrace that tightens until it feels like a strait jacket. You gasp.

Breathe, you beg your lungs. In-out-in-out; you'll be okay, everything will be okay.

But it's not your call anymore.

The room is large, sterile and white, and there's a window a few feet up where doctors and nurses gather for what seems like a show, and you realize that this is why they call it the theatre.

They're ready for a spectacle of sorts, and around you people in scrubs gather. All of them look grave, faces half covered by masks and hands encased in gloves. Everyone looks serious and all eyes are on you.

They may be charged with saving your life but you're the star on this stage, and there's no show without its lead.

But they've trained for years, a calm part of you reminds. They've dealt with this kind of thing every single day. They're experts. They can save you.

But it isn't your call anymore.

Vaguely you realize that their lips are moving – talking to each other – panicking and frantic in the same way you are, and a whimper escapes your lips.

Oh god.

Just as someone reaches over to pump you with blessed drugs, you manage to raise a hand to stop them, gaining a doctor's attention.

"What do you need?"

Your life isn't yours anymore and its fate is now in someone else's hands. Your future, which has been relatively uncertain before is now completely uncontrollable. All you can do now is wait and you decide that it may be worse than actually getting hurt in the first place.

You're a runaway train, a raindrop on the free fall, an iceberg on the verge of collapse. You're in the middle and it's the hardest part.

It isn't your call anymore.

The doctor seems to understand and her smile is easy despite the carnage you've brought with you. Gentling placing the oxygen mask over your nose and mouth, she soothes, "We're going to fix you."

It isn't your call anymore.


End file.
